He thought of the women Mrs. Higgins would inevitably line up. A collection of governesses would be reviewed, austere widows with pinched faces, or ambitious daughters of the gentry who saw the position as a steppingstone. None of them would challenge his logic as she had. None of them would look at him with that defiant spark in their emerald eyes that made him feel like a man rather than a title. He had spent his entire life governed by the rigid architecture of duty, plagued by the neglect of a cold father and the loss of his mother. He had to rebuild and every choice was a stone laid in the wall protecting his family name. Now, he had finally finished the wall, only to find himself trapped on the wrong side of it.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The small room at the Blue Bell Inn was a far cry from the velvet-draped beauty of the Welton townhouse or the sharp austerity of the Presholm townhouse. Here, the air was a thick, stagnant cocktail of boiled root vegetables, cheap gin, and the pervasive rot of damp timber. Imogen sat on the edge of a sagging mattress that smelled of dust and other people’s failures. The morning chill seeped through her thin traveling cloak. She stared at the rough, unfinished wood of the floorboards, her heart feeling like a hollow weight in her chest. Her stomach ached, not just with hunger, but with the sharp, gnawing cramp of a woman who had realized too late that she had walked out into a storm with no shelter.
He must be awake by now,she thought to herself as her mind drifted.
She could almost see him. She pictured Ambrose standing in the doorway of the nursery, the early light catching the rumpled gold of his curly brown hair. He would be looking for her, his blue eyes softening as they always did when he expected to find herbent over a book with the boys. Then, when she was not there, he would go to her quarters and see the letter. He would touch the parchment, and she could almost feel the heat of his anger. Or worse, the coldness of his disappointment, as he read the words.
A sharp, jagged knock at the door made her flinch, her shoulders jerking toward her ears. A curvy maid with a smeared apron and a smudge of soot across her cheek pushed inside without waiting for an answer. She carried a chipped ceramic basin of lukewarm water. Her movements were punctuated by a violent, wet sneeze that she didn’t bother to cover.
Mrs. Higgins would be horrified…
“Reference letter come for ye yet, lassie?” the girl asked. Her tone was devoid of any true sympathy, replaced by a biting Scottish spunk that suggested she had seen a thousand girls just like her pass through these doors on their way to certain ruin.
“Not yet,” Imogen replied, her voice sounding small and brittle in the cramped space. She clutched her hands in her lap, squeezing until her knuckles turned the color of bone. “I am sure it will be here any moment. The post can be slow from Mayfair.”
“Well, daenae hold yer breath, lassie. Dukes daenae like bein’ left in the lurch by the help,” the girl scoffed, slamming the basin down on a rickety washstand so hard the water sloshed over the side, soaking Imogen’s only pair of gloves. “They’re a proud lot, them dukes. If ye ran off without a word, he’s more likely to burn yer name than write ye a recommendation. And if ye cannae pay proper by tomorrow, ye will be findin’ a bed in the street,reference or no reference. This isnae a charity for wayward governesses ye ken.”
“I understand,” Imogen replied, her throat tight. “It will not be a problem. I can assure you.”
“Right,” she said as she paused, leaning against the doorframe as she wiped her nose with the hem of her apron. “The last lass who stayed in this room had a terrible fate, ye ken. She was a maid to a viscountess of some import, a real lady of theton. But the little maid was dallyin’ with the viscount behind the silk curtains, heh heh. When the belly started to swell, he said to his wife that he was drunk, and the girl had forced herself upon him.”
“Oh my,” Imogen said, clasping her hands to her chest. “How dreadful!”
“Can ye believe that? A slip of a thing like her, forcing a man of his size? Pish posh!”
“How unseemly,” Imogen said softly, a cold shiver racing down her spine. “That is awful gossip, Miss. Surely, no one believed him.”
“Everyone believed him, lassie! That’s how the world turns when a peer of the realm barks,” the girl laughed, a harsh, grating sound on Imogen’s cold ears.
“What happened to her?”
“She ended up in the workhouse, and he’s still dinin’ with the Queen. So, if yer Duke was the reason ye fled, ye’d best pray he’s forgotten yer face entirely. A man’s pride is a dangerous thing for a girl with an empty purse.”
“He is not like that,” Imogen whispered, though the seed of doubt settled like a stone in her gut.
“Well, suit yerself! But if I were ye, I would stop lookin’ at the door and start lookin’ for a pawn shop.” The maid turned on her heel, the heavy thud of her boots echoing down the hallway and leaving Imogen alone with the silence and the cold, gray light of a future that felt increasingly like a grave.
The door clicked shut, leaving Imogen in a world that had suddenly turned sharp as a knife. Without Ambrose’s protection, she was once again just a woman of uncertain reputation, a lowly governess with nowhere to go. If she could even truly call herself a governess, as she had only served in that position for several weeks. She leaned her head against the cold wall and closed her eyes, fighting the urge to run back to the only place that had ever felt like home.
The reference will come, I know it. And when it does, I will find a proper post and move on with my life. All will be well. I always land on my feet…
Imogen’s gaze drifted to the small, frayed velvet pouch resting atop her trunk. Inside lay the only thing she owned of any true value. It was a tiny, tarnished silver locket. It held no portraits, only a curled lock of her mother’s hair she was given as a smallchild. It was the final anchor to a life where she had been someone’s daughter rather than someone’s servant, even if it were only as an infant.
She reached out and grabbed the pouch, her fingers trembling as they brushed the cool metal inside. If she took it to the pawnbroker down the lane, it might fetch enough for a week of bread and help with the room. But the thought of it sitting in a dusty window, priced and handled by strangers, felt like the final admission of her defeat.
If I sell it,she thought, her eyes stinging,I will truly become a ghost. There will be nothing left of the dancer’s daughter… who believed she could be loved by a Duke.
Her stomach cramped again, a sharp reminder that pride was a luxury the hungry couldn’t afford. She could almost smell the hot, yeasty scent of the bakery at the corner. One small piece of silver for the chance to survive another day. One link of the chain broken just to keep her heart beating long enough to reach a city where no one knew her name.
Just a little longer. Just until the post arrives.
She clutched the locket in her palm. The sharp edge of the casing bit into her skin. But as the heavy silence of the inn settled back in, the locket felt less like a memento and more like a coin. A coin she was terrified she would have to spend before the sun went down.
Back at Welton House, the atmosphere was thick with a different kind of misery as the afternoon began to set in hues of amber and orange. Ambrose was sitting in the dark, staring at a half-empty glass of brandy, the formal resignation letter crumpled on the desk in front of him.
“I heard the news from Jennings,” The Duke of Kirkhammer said as he entered the room unannounced, his usual boisterous tone replaced by a rare gravity as he looked at his friend.
